Sweet Seasons
by ericajanebarry
Summary: Of Richard and Isobel and their new life in the Yorkshire countryside. Picks up where Time Stand Still leaves off.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Welcome to the latest installment of my modern Richobel retirement AU. As we pick up, they have left London behind for the North Yorkshire countryside. Pictures of the house and of their updates to it have been posted to the _espoirmerveilleux_ blog on Tumblr.**

 **We're jumping straightaway into schmaltz and M-ness here. Don't expect much in the way of angst in this fic. They've had more than their fair share of that already. As for what you should expect, there's a Tumblr post I've seen a bunch of times that goes like this:**

 _ **Producers: Relationships need drama! If couples are just happy all the time the audience will get bored!**_

 _ **Me: I would literally watch these two idiots do laundry and make toast and be domestic and smiley for the rest of my trash life.**_

 **I'm not saying it's going to be all unicorns and rainbows, but I think you get my point. ;)**

 **The title of this piece will be reflective of its aim, but I can't take credit for it. "Sweet Seasons" is a song by Carole King, and this bit of lyric: "And I'll watch the seasons runnin' away/And I'll build me a life in the open/A life in the country" is exactly what Richard and Isobel are doing.**

 **And because it's _me_ , and nearly every song in my meticulously curated music library makes me think of something I'd like to convey in fic, there are lyrics interspersed (sparingly) in the text of this chapter. I am a huge fan of the Anglo-American rock band Fleetwood Mac and of the projects of its various members over the years. Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks, the California contingent, recorded as Buckingham-Nicks before they joined Fleetwood Mac. They wrote a song together called "Without You," with which I was surprisingly unfamiliar until recently. Now that I recognize it as a "Richobel song," I can't stop listening. Go and find the demo on YouTube if you have a chance. It's sweet.**

 **There will be special appearances by some other well-loved Downton characters in this fic beginning with the next chapter. I do hope you enjoy, and if you can spare a moment to let me know your thoughts I would be most grateful!**

 **xx,  
~ejb~**

* * *

 **Mid-May, 2016**

The sun is already high in the sky when he wakes. He picks up his phone off the nightstand beside him and glances at the time: _8:45._ He sets it back down, stretching, and rolls toward his wife. He has to laugh at the way she sleeps. He doubts that she's done it intentionally, but the covers are thrown back, leaving her bare to the hips as she lies on her stomach. When he touches her arm to ascertain whether she's cold and finds her skin wonderfully warm, he leaves the covers off so that he can admire her.

They don't bother with pajamas anymore. Even on the nights they don't make love they lie together now, skin on skin. Their dressing gowns are on hand in the event MacTavish needs let out, but now they can simply open the door and let him go. Gone are the days of getting fully kitted out for the dog's midnight wee.

Since they've been up here she has spent the fair-weather days in the garden, beating the hedges into submission and reading her roses the riot act before they come into bloom for the season. She is brown as a berry for her efforts, even with the sun cream he makes her use, and he marvels at this; he's only ever burnt to a crisp, even when he jumps in the bottle and turns round.

On days when it's rained, she has been hard at it redecorating their bedroom. The house needs nothing in the way of major updates, leaving them free to focus on giving it their own stamp. It's a gift she has, a knack for picking up this lamp from a bring-and-buy sale and combining it with that throw pillow she nabbed at West Elm before they left the city. The result is a bright and airy master suite, all white linens and brilliant, unfiltered light. It's a haven for them, a retreat within a retreat.

He has watched her blossom in the couple of weeks since leaving the city. She appears, at long last, to be shedding her inhibitions. There was little they hadn't done together physically before the move; not a day that had passed that he hadn't told (and shown) her how beautiful she was, and yet she had always been just a little ill-at-ease, a touch disbelieving.

Those days are behind them now. _And how._

 _She is exquisite,_ he muses. The years have been kind to her body despite all the heartache she has known. Even her hair has been kissed by the sun, as more streaks of honeyed blonde have begun to emerge than he's ever seen before. As he runs his fingers through it, she sighs in her sleep.

There are secrets he's only just beginning to discover in the lovely morning light.

Her shoulders are sprinkled generously with freckles, and he thinks of each one as a kiss from the sunshine that she loves so much. He reckons himself a right soppy old sod for having such romantic notions about her, but it really is as if all the warmth he always knew her to possess is coming into its own now, no longer capable of being contained.

He plays a game of connect-the-dots with a particular smattering of freckles dotting her left shoulder blade and it occurs to him that they form the shape of a rose. He grins at this discovery, knowing it will please her as her roses are a source of pride and a labour of love.

As the tip of his tongue is following the path mapped out by his fingers, she begins to stir. He is transfixed by the roll of her hips as she stretches, and he wonders how he survived so many years of his life without waking up beside her.

Pillowing her head on her forearms, she blinks at him with a sleepy smile. "You really should see someone about that," she tells him. While her voice enchants him all of the time, it possesses a particularly rich, husky timbre when she first awakens, and of all the sounds he's heard over the course of a lifetime this one just might be his favourite.

"How's that?" he asks, leaning in to steal a kiss before she can reply.

"Your obsession with my body," she manages breathlessly.

"Ah, but I am doing. Perhaps you know of her … she's a brilliant doctor. Lovely golden skin, legs a mile long, takes no prisoners. Any of this ringing a bell?"

She giggles, rolling toward him and propping herself up on her elbow. "Oh, I see. Well then, has she cured your condition, or made it worse?"

He chuckles, reaching out to trace the contours of her collarbones. "Both. Simultaneously. You see, just when I think I know all there is to know about her, I find something new and altogether fascinating."

"Please," she snorts, "fascinating?"

"Well, yeah," he answers, feigning insult. "Do you know, she has constellations written on her body."

She gapes at him, incredulous. "Oh, now you're just having me on."

"Sorry; no. Sit up," he directs, and when she does he moves behind her, quickly locating and mapping out the formation in question.

"So that's what you were up to." She lets her head fall forward and closes her eyes at his touch.

"Mmm," he affirms. "And 'I call her rose of heaven, for I've longed to love her so.'"*

"Is it?" she asks excitedly.

"Aye." Reading the invitation in her posture, he begins to massage her neck and shoulders.

"Oh, that's lovely! You know, before us I'd never have figured you for such an old romantic." Turning over her shoulder she adds, "Don't ever stop, will you? It's marvellous."

He smooths his hands over her arms. "Duly noted. Now, what's your pleasure this morning, love?" A thrill runs up and down her spine. _Oh, but he has a way with words!_

"Goodness," she says in response to both her body's reaction to his question and the words themselves. "Lie with me? And forget the covers."

* * *

 _ **The time had come and gone without you  
Inside me  
Love to be written about you**_

* * *

She watches him as he lies down beside her, captivated by the movement of his body. If time has been generous to her, it's been kinder still to him. He works for his physique, but closer to the truth is that he's been blessed with a naturally beautiful form. She cannot resist touching him, smoothing her hand over his flank as his legs tangle with hers. His warm palm moves up her thigh to her bum, resting there.

"I love being here," she half-whispers, reaching up to kiss him.

"I can tell. I don't think you've stopped smiling in three weeks." He bends his head to kiss her shoulder.

"No," she clarifies, "well, I mean yes, I'm thrilled to be up here now. But I meant that I love being _here,_ with you, in this bed. In your arms. I'm—" She meets his eyes. "I'm _home._ "

He wraps her up in his embrace, pulling her tight against him, and she settles with her head resting on his shoulder. He can count on one hand the number of times in sixty-one years of life that he has been moved to tears, and more than half of them have been at her hands.

He can't speak except to whisper her name, shaking his head in wonder.

She feels him warm all around her and kisses him - the line of his jaw, his neck and the base of his throat. Runs her hands the length of his back, over his buttocks. She has been existing all these years: working, healing, mothering when the privilege was still hers, but it has been a very, very long time since she has felt so intimately connected to someone she loves, someone who loves her. _To_ _her husband._

"This is _life,_ "** she murmurs, thinking aloud.

"Aye, that it is," he agrees, gently trailing his fingertips across her belly.

She giggles, realising her admission. "Are you as happy as I am?" She maneuvers him to lie on his back and stretches her body along the length of his, propping her elbows on his chest and resting her chin on her hands.

He smirks, leaning up to nip at her chin. "Are you kidding me? No more 3 am callouts; no dossing down in the doctors' lounge, the two of us passing like ships in the night. Now it's open space and fresh air, nothing pressing but the demands of the moment and whatever I decide to put my hand to.*** I've been feeling the pull for at least five years now."

This is news to her. "Have you done? I had absolutely no inkling until you mentioned it to me last spring. What took you so long, then?"

He parts his legs, bringing their bodies flush, his hands gliding over her back and hips. "I reckon it was the vain hope that perhaps you'd want to join me." He ducks his head as he says it, momentarily vulnerable.

She catches his face in her hands. "Richard, don't," she whispers. " _Don't._ We were the best of friends. Even if that's all we'd ever been I'd have wanted it for you. And I loved you then, but you know that."

He nods, drawing her down to kiss her. "It's no matter anyhow. We're here now, and better for letting it happen in its own time." He drops his head into the crook of her neck, resting his lips against her pulse point.

When she speaks he feels it even more than he hears it.

"Sweeter for the waiting. Isn't that what it's all about?"

"It is that," he agrees, rolling her onto her back. For more than a decade now he has longed to see her the way he knew she was meant to be: thriving; fulfilled. That his love has aided her in reaching such satisfaction is icing on the proverbial cake.

"What?" she whispers, having caught him staring at her.

Shrugging, he lays a trail of kisses between her breasts and over her heart. "Happy is a good look on you. Bewitching, even. If only you knew …" He pauses to watch her, thinking he could make a lifelong study of her facial expressions alone. At the same time she regards him as he gathers his thoughts, musing that his eyes are a barometer for all that he feels.

After some moments he continues, "You know, I pray every day that this is just the start and we've still got years left to us - because my God, girl, I had to wait fifty-nine bloody years to love you. But if my time ran out today I'd die a happy man. All I've ever wanted is to see you like this."

She grasps at his shoulders, pulling him up to her mouth. The kiss begins sweetly as she pours into it all the emotion for which she doesn't have words, but soon she is biting at his bottom lip and his tongue is sweeping across hers. His hands trail from her face, tracing over her throat and her chest until he fills his palms with the soft warmth of her breasts.

When the kiss breaks she is smiling beautifully, a low, sultry laugh emitting from her lips. "I don't think I can talk much more if you keep that up, sweetheart."

He leans away from her, a glint in his eyes. "Shall I stop then?"

She takes his face in her hands again, the look in her eyes deadly serious even as tiny smile lines crinkle around their corners. "We can talk _laterrr,_ " she purrs, stretching long against his body.

"That's what I thought," he laughs. "Beautiful girl. Turn over, eh?"

Reaching to kiss him one more time, she nuzzles his nose with her own. "Oh, yes," she answers, turning to lie on her side. Every inch of her skin feels electrified as she waits for him to wrap his arms around her.

"Richard," she sighs, pushing back against him. "I feel so good like this. So safe and loved and desired."

"And you are," he whispers, his breath hot against her ear. The only sounds in the room are their murmured endearments and breathy moans as their hips roll together, as he rolls her nipples in his palms. She lifts her leg to rest on his and touches between his legs, bringing his excitement to rest against her folds. He growls in response and she laughs joyously.

She feels him twitch against her, hardening, and there is a gush of warmth between her legs. She throbs, rushing suddenly and quickly toward an unexpected peak.

"Richard," she pants, "you know how sometimes I can … when you've not even touched me yet?"

"Already?" he exclaims.

She manages to look at him over her shoulder, nodding, wide-eyed. "Oh, yeah."

" _Baby."_ It slips out, spoken reverently and with astonishment, this endearment that only rarely emerges in moments like this. She gasps when she hears it, the walls of her sex clenching hard. "What do you need me to do?"

"Just …" more panting, the words coming with great difficulty, "... _more._ Like that …" He alternates kneading the flesh of her breasts and caressing her nipples and she keens, pressing her palm against her forehead. "Oh, darling … my God … Richard … _YES!"_

The contractions of her sex draw the tip of him inside her, and he cants his hips forward until he is fully sheathed in her heat. She is already breathless, and a heaving gasp is torn from her chest at the feel of him filling her. He holds her through her climax, peppering her back and shoulders with kisses. She can't decide whether she's still coming or coming again but she can feel him more acutely than she's ever done and he's not even _moving_ yet; he's just riding it out with her and it's so intense and beautiful that tears spill from her eyes.

"I'm not crying, I'm not crying," she tells him, looking over her shoulder at him as teardrops land on his arm. Grinning, he raises an eyebrow at her. "I mean, I am, but …" She laughs, and then so does he, and she palms his cheek as he kisses her forehead. "My heart is so _full._ "

He begins to move slowly, speaking softly to her, his arm across her breasts. "This is all I ever wanted … to be this close to you. All of life seems like a prelude to being here with you now, Isobel."

The sound she makes is halfway between a laugh and a sigh and she pushes back hard against him, holding his hip. "That's impressively eloquent considering our current state, sweetheart."

"Yeah, well … don't expect that to last, with you moving like you are," he chuckles. The tip of his tongue traces the shell of her ear.

"Ohh," she whispers, shivering. "I'm up for more now, if you're ready. _How_ can it be like this, hmm? Better every time."

"I find it best not to question these matters, beauty. Good things come to those who wait." He sucks in a breath when she reaches down to touch him where he moves in and out of her. "And that's me done talking."

She laughs, low and throaty, and throws his words back at him. "Shall I stop then?"

"Don't you _dare,_ " he rumbles, moving a hand to her hip.

"Oh, I love you." She smiles and he can _hear_ it in her voice, and he's about to answer when she cups him from beneath, scratching lightly with her fingernails.

" _Jesus, woman!"_ he shouts. He pushes gently at her shoulders and she rolls halfway onto her stomach, welcoming his weight on top of her. She can't touch him in this position but oh! can she feel him. He finds her hands and links their fingers, holding hers against the mattress. She feels entirely at his mercy; she can do nothing to make it good for him like this. But from the sounds of it she has nothing to worry about.

He is _in her,_ inside his wife, and she feels like home to him. She is all the good in life, all together at once, and it's everything to him that she is happy now, whole and free. She is softness and warmth and lusty cries that heighten his need of her, and he moves harder, faster, chanting her name and ' _I love you'_ and lovely unintelligible syllables that her heart treasures.

 _Isobel, my heart, love of my life, it's you; it's you. Only you for me, always. Strong and so beautiful; my beauty, I want you, I need you. All I want is your joy._

"Richard," she cries, "don't hold back. Take all you need. You feel so good!"

With her blessing he hastens toward his own end, holding her hips so hard his knuckles blanch. She squeezes her inner muscles down on him and he pours himself into her, shuddering his release as she murmurs soothingly of her love for him.

She would hold him within her forever if she could, but his shoulders tremble with the effort of holding himself up and she watches with a smile as he flops down on his stomach with his head pillowed on his forearms, thinking he looks like she must have done when he woke her. She curls into him, lying on her side, and presses soft kisses to his bicep, running her fingers through his hair.

* * *

 _ **Strange are the ways  
Of a very complicated world  
And there you are**_

* * *

He is first to speak afterward, sounding as if he's had the wind knocked out of him. "When I said that if my time ran out today I'd die a happy man, I didn't know I was speaking prophetically."

Giggling, she kisses his lips. "I think it's safe to conclude that retirement agrees with us. I'm not sure I could walk at the moment if I tried, but then moving is highly overrated."

"No one would know if we had a little nap," he says conspiratorially. "Lad's been out and I could leave it till later for breakfast if you could."

"Mmm," she purrs, nodding. "What a smashing idea. Can I hold you?"

"I won't hurt you?" His eyes hold both the sated glaze of post-coital bliss and the deep indigo of concern and her heart swells with love.

"Never," she assures him, propping pillows against the headboard. She sinks back into them and holds her arms out to him. "Come here, darling."

He curls himself into her and pulls the covers over them, tangling his legs with hers and laying his head on her chest. He kisses her there, stroking her breast, rubbing the nipple.

"You know how I love that, but you're done in," she whispers, kissing his forehead.

He looks up at her. "I want to take you out later."

"Yes, later. Sleep now, my love."

She listens as his breathing pattern slows, his head heavy against her breast as he slips into slumber. She follows him in short order, drifting to sleep with a smile on her lips.

* * *

 _ **If I never knew the likes of you  
Where would I be without you?**_

* * *

The air in the room is hot when she wakes, and he is no longer lying in her arms. Stretching out her hand, she makes contact with his shoulder and he moves closer.

"Hello, beauty."

"Mmm," she mumbles, her eyes still closed. "'Time's it?"

He chuckles. "Quarter past eleven. I come bearing coffee."

She brightens at this, sitting up against the headboard. The sheet falls to her waist and she reaches to cover herself, arrested by his hand on her wrist.

"Leave it," he requests. "Please."

"Honestly! Haven't you had your fill?" She blushes prettily but drops the sheet.

"Not even possible," he answers, pressing a steaming cup of coffee into her hands.

She takes a sip, closing her eyes as she savours the taste. "This is excellent." She looks at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she teases him. "I knew there was a reason I kept you around."

"And here I was thinking it was my charming social graces," he quips, and she chokes on her coffee.

"Dammit, Richard, don't do that to me!" She can't stop herself, nor can she catch her breath for a good few minutes. Her laughter is contagious and soon they both have tears streaming down their cheeks.

"Oh, my God," she says when she recovers. "That was good. Charming you are. You've got that in spades, at least with me and that's all that counts. But sociable … not so much. And you know something? That is absolutely fine by me. I suppose I'm getting old, but I find I've less interest in putting on the face as time goes by."

"Not old," he tells her. "Selective. There's a difference. But that isn't what I wanted to say."

"Isn't it?"

"No. Seeing as we're effectively honeymooning, I wondered if we might take a trip to the seaside."

Her eyes widen excitedly. "Where?"

"Scarborough. The weather's good for it, and half-term isn't until end of month so we'd miss the crowds. _Himself_ can tag along, and we could stop tonight if we were inclined."

"Scarborough! Do you know, I've not been in … going on twenty years. Brilliant idea, love!"

"Right, so I'll fix a late breakfast whilst you have a bath and as soon as we've eaten we can be off."

"It's a pity you're already dressed," she teases, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of him in an oxford shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and khaki trousers. Blue is his colour, she decided that long ago.

"Darling, if we showered together we'd never leave this bedroom." He leans in for a kiss.

She returns it, humming her agreement. "Truer words were never spoken **."**

* * *

 ***"The Rose of No Man's Land," Jack Caddigan & James Alexander Brennan, 1918 - a tribute to the Red Cross nurses on the front lines of WWI**

 ****Credit to Alan Bennett; in his _Talking Heads 2: Nights in the Gardens of Spain,_ Dame Penelope's character, Rosemary Horrocks, utters this line (complete with heartbreaking facial expressions)**

 *****James Taylor, "Montana:" "Enough for today, the demands of the moment/The thing on my mind is the work of my hands"**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: What began as a small idea took on a life of its own, as it so often does. Huge thanks go out to brenna-louise for seeing this one through from concept to finished piece and for being a second set of eyes. This chapter includes so many tiny bits that were her suggestions and I love what they add.**

 **Chapter-specific notes: the lyrics mentioned are from the song "Sunny," by Bobby Hebb. It's a favourite of Dame Penelope's and she has said about it what Isobel says to Richard.**

 **To my guest reviewer, Kate: I can't even begin to thank you for your kind, encouraging words! All I've ever hoped to do is to give Richard and Isobel a better story. I'm beyond thrilled that the love I envision between them comes through in the writing.**

 **To each and every one of my readers, thank you so much for your support!**

 **xx,  
~ejb~**

* * *

She dresses for the day in a pair of dark blue denim trousers and a white tunic-length button down, knowing how he loves her in white. As she applies her makeup and fusses with her hair she takes a long look at her reflection in the mirror. She recalls having done this very thing a number of months back, before they'd taken the decision to retire. The woman before her now bears scant resemblance to that one. She stands surer now, and her smile reaches her eyes. Somehow her hair even seems to look younger. That thought makes her laugh. _Who is this person that laughs so easily?_ She hasn't been this way since she was twenty years old and newly married to Reggie. For just a moment she thinks she sees what Richard sees, and she mouths the words in the mirror that he has often spoken to her, about her:

 _Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she laughs at the time to come.*_

It's a blessed mystery: she is fortified by the love of a man who fully believes in her ability to stand on her own, yet who says to her, "Come live with me and be my love."**

She is not religious in a conventional sense; her God is her own. But she finds herself whispering the entreaty that rushes so often to the tip of her tongue: _Please, give us time._

 **oOo**

By the time Richard stops for petrol on their way out of town, MacTavish is already asleep on Isobel's lap. She leans her head against the headrest and strokes the velvet of his ears and he sighs contentedly. She chuckles. "You know what life's all about, don't you, lad?"

Richard returns with coffee from Costa for the both of them, and she's grateful as she has a habit of dropping off to sleep on car trips, lulled by the engine noise and the warm sun on her face. She doesn't want to miss a minute of this one, of the coastline unfurling before her eyes and Richard chatting to her, holding her hand and brushing back her hair.

Nearly halfway there she finds her head lolling despite the caffeine, as they fall into a companionable silence. She switches on the radio, spinning the dial to Radio 2.

"Oh! Would you listen to this!" she exclaims.

 _Sunny, yesterday my life was filled with rain  
Sunny, you smiled at me and really eased the pain  
The dark days are gone, and the bright days are here  
My sunny one shines so sincere  
Sunny one so true, I love you_

She sings along with the music and he grins. Her voice is lovely, her smile even more so.

"I've loved that one since I was a girl," she tells him when it ends.

"I can see how you would do. It puts me in mind of you."

"Does it? That's lovely." She pauses for a moment, looking down at their hands, the way his long fingers curl around hers where they rest against the seat.

"Richard? I'm going to say something, and I don't want you to take it as me being morose. Now I've no designs on going anywhere, alright? But when the great eventuality happens, I'd like that song played at the funeral."

He doesn't reply straightaway.

They don't fuss much these days. They certainly have done, in the past, and each one possesses a knack for getting under the other's skin like no one else. But he's learnt that if he listens hard enough, he can hear the heart behind her words. He's unsettled for just a moment by these present ones, by the way they are delivered with a casual nonchalance. As physicians, death was a reality of both their jobs. Not that he ever grew accustomed to it - it always hurt him, particularly as his patients were newborn babes - but he'd come to accept it as one of several potential outcomes. But now his wife sits beside him, talking about her own demise with the same detachment - _with a smile on her face_ \- and he can't. Can't conceive of the notion of a world without her in it. He _won't._

But it's not strange, not really, that she is so matter-of-fact with regard to her own mortality after the losses she's endured. He recalls having sat beside her as she'd tried to work out how to suitably memorialise her son. How does one condense and encapsulate the life of another into a sound byte? He imagines the struggle was just as difficult - likely more so, in some ways - when she buried Reginald.

He raises their clasped hands to his mouth and kisses the back of hers, finding the right words. "It would do as a fitting tribute, that. But I'm not letting you go anytime soon."

She grins, turning her head to press a kiss to his shoulder. "Lovely man," she murmurs. "As I said, no plans." _If only it were that simple._ It isn't that she thinks him ignorant on the subject; he's a doctor, after all. But the only losses he's ever spoken of were those of his parents, each of them closing in on age 80 when they died of natural causes.

"Isobel," he sighs. He is not as naive as she believes him to be in this regard. His own experience was a lifetime ago, different from hers but not so different. He hasn't kept it from her out of shame or malice or intent to deceive; it's been so many years that he rarely even thinks about it anymore. It was brought to the forefront of his mind again after Matthew's death, but that was hardly the time to drag up the subject. He wants her to know now for the simple reason that he doesn't enjoy keeping a secret from her, but also because he wants her to know that he does more than merely sympathise with her experiences. He thinks he'll tell her soon.

 **oOo**

They reach Scarborough in mid-afternoon. MacTavish has had his fill of sitting still, so they take him down to the southern portion of the North Bay beach where dogs are permitted this time of year. He has been swimming in the river at home and at the parks in London, but he's never before been to the seaside. At first he isn't entirely certain what to make of it, and he sits at Richard's feet and watches the waves break, tilting his head this way and that. After some moments he ventures out to the surfline. He pokes his nose into the foam from a receding wave and it makes him sneeze. They can't help laughing at him.

"I hope you're getting this on camera," Isobel says to Richard.

He nods, holding up his phone. "Recording."

Another, larger wave rolls in and, startled by its size, MacTavish attempts to scurry up the beach and out of its way. He isn't quick enough, and it breaks right over his head. He shakes himself off, making a beeline for Isobel, and stands there blinking up at her. She knows it's anthropomorphism but she can't help the thought that if he were a child this is the point at which he would be saying, "Up, Mumma."

Crouching down beside him, she rolls up the legs of her trousers and slips off her shoes. "You're alright, sweetheart," she croons. Meanwhile Richard tries to cover a smirk. "Here, I'll show you. Come on." She begins walking toward the water. MacTavish hesitates. She pats her thigh, indicating he should follow. "Come on, sweet boy. Mum will go in with you. It's fun!" MacTavish looks back at Richard, who simply points at Isobel. At last he falls in at her heel.

"There's a clever boy. Now, look, we're just going to stand here …" she picks a place where she knows the next wave will reach, "... and let the water come to us." When it does, she turns to Richard with wide eyes. The water that licks at her ankles is so cold that it makes her bones ache all the way to her shoulders. She presses a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream that would frighten MacTavish, who - once again reminding her of a child - looks up at her to gauge her reaction.

"Ooh, that's _cold,_ isn't it? But such fun! Look, here comes another!" She tries to brace herself but is still surprised by just how cold the water is. A couple of more waves, and MacTavish is cavorting in the surf, gathering mouthfuls of seafoam. His mother, as it happens, is also leaping about. Behind them Richard has all he can do not to double over with laughter as he captures on video the image of his wife hopping from one foot to the other, as if that's going to help matters.

When she turns to look at her husband, Isobel stares daggers at him. "Go on, laugh it up, Major," she calls to him. "I think it's time you had a go!"

"That's alright," he replies, "I'm rather enjoying the show!"

MacTavish is so entertained by now that he doesn't even notice when Isobel goes back to join Richard.

"Doing alright there, beauty?" Richard asks as he watches her digging through her bag in search of her jumper.

"Oh! You know I used to paddle about in the surf with Matthew all the time; never bothered me. How does the song go? _'What a drag it is getting old.'"_

Slipping off his jacket, Richard wraps it round her shoulders. "I don't know … you're awfully sexy, for an old girl."

She glares at him even as the corners of her eyes crinkle in a smile. "You were going to get a kiss, but now …" She feigns flouncing away, but he catches her about the waist and turns her to face him, lifting her off the ground.

"Guess I'll just have to steal one then," he rasps, pressing his lips to hers.

She shrieks with laughter. "Put me down, you …"

"Oh, go on! You _what?_ Hmm?" He kisses her again, stealing her breath.

When he sets her back on her feet she giggles as she buries her head in the crook of his neck, nipping at the skin. He smells of soap and aftershave and _warmth,_ something she's desperate for at the moment, so she lingers there.

"You _infuriatingly_ handsome devil. It's not fair, you know," she tells him pointedly, hooking her thumbs through the belt loops of his trousers. "I can never stay cross with you. One look in those eyes of yours and I forget what I was on about."

He rubs her arms in an effort to warm her. "Do I make you cross?" he asks with a sparkle in his eye.

She touches his cheek. "No. Not very often. I think we got that out of our systems years ago, wouldn't you say?"

"Mmm," he hums his agreement, nodding. "Here, come and sit by me, let him run a bit." They spread a blanket on the sand and as they sit down, he pulls her into his arms. "You know, I can't stay cross with you either."

"No?" She snuggles against him, running the backs of her fingers over the line of his jaw as she chuckles, reminiscing. "Used to be all I had to do was look askance at you and we were off to the races. Do you miss that?"

"Miss what?" He raises an eyebrow at her. "Us at odds with one another?" She nods. "Not on your life. All I've got to do to see you with your ire up these days is mention the name Jeremy Kyle."

"Ugh." She rolls her eyes. "It's humiliation television. It's exploitative! Scraping the bottom of the barrel for ratings."***

He grins. "See? There you are. And for what it's worth I don't disagree."

She turns to look at him over her shoulder and steals a kiss, then leans back against his chest as his arms go around her waist. "Thank you for this, Richard. It was just the ticket, coming out here today."

She can feel him smile as he presses a kiss to her hair. "Shame the crowds are so dreadful in high summer; I'd love to bring you back when it's warmer."

"No, this is perfect. It's been just us since we arrived." She is quiet for a moment, looking out at the horizon. "There's something about the sea, isn't there? It's … humbling."

He nods, adding, "Majestic."

"Yeah. And healing. You know the last time I was here was after Reggie died. Matthew was back at uni and I was all alone. I took a room in a guest house; stayed for months, till the cold drove me back inland. In order to get my head round it all, I needed to be near the sea. It's the one thing constant in this life." She looks down at his arms around her, then at MacTavish splashing about. "I can come here when I'm on top of the world or when it's all come crashing down around me, and it's always the same." He tightens his arms around her and she looks back at him. "Not trying to be a downer, love," she tells him softly.

"No, I understood. I have the same relationship with the sea."

"Have you?" This surprises her, but it shouldn't; they are halves of the same whole, he and she.

"It's time I told you something."

 **oOo**

He moves to sit beside her, their shoulders touching. "You know that I was engaged once, after medical school …"

"Yes," she affirms. "You said it ended badly …"

He nods. "That it did, though by no fault of hers. Or mine, actually. She was studying art history; I was just starting my residency. It was altogether mad, the timing, but we were going to give it a go. We'd just got our own flat together. I was working all hours, you know … between the hospital and paying for school I'd be away from home for days at a time but she knew what she was getting and it worked."

"Remarkable, isn't it; the constitution we have when we're young?" She thinks of herself and Reggie, of stolen moments between rounds and meals eaten together in one or the other's car and the romance of it all. First love, untainted by the cynicism wrought of living and loss.

"It is, indeed. We were three months out from the wedding and I was at home one evening, trying to catch a few hours' sleep before the overnight shift. I reckoned she'd got stuck at work - at her internship - as that happened often. It was around 9 o'clock the police knocked at our door, said there'd been an accident. She was run off the road by a delivery van on her way home. Killed instantly."

It feels as if she's been punched in the gut. She gasps, pressing a hand to her mouth. "No, no, I must be hearing you wrong. Richard, surely you're not telling me that your fiancée _died?_ "

He nods. "She was twenty-four years old. I was twenty-seven. The thing of it is … the medical examiner found she was pregnant at the time of her death. Nine weeks gone. All indications were that she wasn't aware yet." He looks off into the distance but maintains contact with her, toying with her fingers.

She can't speak at all, can only manage to shake her head. Fifteen years in his acquaintance and she thought she'd got him mostly weighed up. And while this news in no way changes what she feels for him - except to make her love him more - it does bring to mind a thousand and one questions, none of which she's certain whether to ask.

Finally she manages the one that matters most. "Are … are you alright, Richard?"

He smiles at her and it's gentle; open and vulnerable and a little bit sad. This is all brand new to her, but it's been a part of his reality for more than half his life. "I am, my love," he tells her. "It's been strange, having watched you grieve and not telling you about it, but the possibility of coming across as narcissistic when you were in such a dark place … that's something I wasn't willing to chance. I didn't want you carrying it, you know. Not in addition to your own load."

"No, it's alright," she interjects. "Please don't feel you've got to justify yourself. Far be it from me, of all people, to pass judgment on the way one handles grief. Only I _do_ hurt for you, and … well, I can't quite get my head round it all just yet." She is quiet for a bit, thoughtful. "What made you choose to share it with me now?" It isn't an accusation but a bid for understanding.

He reads it as such. "It wasn't any singular thing … but I've seen such a shift in you this year, since we started the process of moving house, really, and it's as if you aren't crushed by it any longer. And then in the car today, the song and the request you made … it seemed like the time was right. I simply wanted you to know that I get it, that it goes beyond sympathy."

She blinks, synthesising the information. "I have so many questions, but I think it's best if I take some time before I go interrogating you. The last thing I want is to seem impertinent, as you've always handled me with such sensitivity."

He takes her by the hand, weaving his fingers through hers. "I didn't mean to cast a pall over the day …"

"No, no, you haven't done! It's not a small thing, is all. But I'm very glad you told me." She thinks for a moment. "Would it be alright if we went for a cup of tea? I'd like to come back here a bit later. He loves this little spot," she indicates MacTavish, still scampering about, "only I'm chilled through, and I'd like to walk with you a bit."

"Of course, darling." He stands, helping her to her feet. He whistles for MacTavish and she folds the blanket, stowing it in her bag. "Isobel, I want you to know that there's very little at all you could say that would upset me. I'd never heap something on you like that and then close the book on discussing it. Remember I've had thirty-four years to work through it all."

She smiles gently. "I'll bear that in mind. I just … I've learned from you." He makes a show of appearing shocked and she laughs. "I know, I know, but … I've a terrible habit of going off half-cocked and being _mean_ when I don't intend it; it's only that I feel …out of level, I suppose." Smiling again, she looks away and busies herself with snapping the lead to MacTavish's collar. "I'm rambling, but the point is, _you_ don't do that - wound with words, and I love you for it."

He puts an arm around her shoulders as they begin to walk toward the town proper. "Are you wanting to lash out just now?" he asks her, trying to school his own emotions. He must accept that in sharing his past with her, there are any number of responses she might have.

"No," she is quick to reply. A beat, and then, "Yes." She shakes her head. "I don't know, Richard. Not _lash out,_ not really. The first thought that entered my mind when you told me was, _my God, he lost a child._ And, well, nothing breaks my heart anymore quite the way that does. But then right on the heels of it there was just a moment's jealousy, if I'm honest." She winces slightly, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Jealousy?" he echoes. "What, that there was someone before …?"

She nods ruefully. "Jealous of a dead girl. Aren't I wretched?"

They happen upon a café with a pleasant little terrace. Several other couples are seated there with canine companions at their feet. They sit down and give their orders, and the waitress asks if she can bring fresh water and a treat for MacTavish. They share a look of astonishment and take her up on the offer.

As they wait, he tells her quietly, "I don't think you're any more wretched than I am."

She frowns disbelievingly. " _You?_ How can you say such a thing?"

"Do you honestly think that I've never had a moment's envy over the fact that Reginald was your first love? That you had twenty-five years together, had a son together?"

"Truly?" she asks, surprised. "But Richard, you never said!"

"Well, I couldn't have done ... you were still very much in mourning for him when I met you - as well you should have been - and then for Matthew as well. I would explain it like this: I don't begrudge him a moment of the time he had with you, and I'm pleased that you were happy together, that you were so well loved. You should have been; you deserve all the love in the world."

Her cheeks flush beautifully pink at this and she averts her eyes. When she puts a hand on the table between them he covers it with his own. "Sometimes I think," she nearly whispers, _"how did I get so lucky?"_ Her eyes hold his for a protracted moment. "I'm sorry, darling, you were saying …?"

He smiles "Only on occasion I've had the errant thought that I would have liked to have been your first love, your only. Is that what you feel?"

She nods. "Yes, something very much akin to that, only it's foolish. I mean, I think you were 45 when we met?"

He affirms this with a nod of his own.

"I shouldn't expect - nor would I want - for you to have been alone all those years. I ought to be happy you were loved, because if you think me deserving of a lifetime of love, darling, nobody ought to have had it more than you. And I _am_ glad. And I can't believe you're so forgiving, but I'm grateful."

Their order arrives - salmon sandwiches and a large pot of tea - and they talk of other things for a bit, deciding to take a room for the night. Afterward they walk along the high street, browsing the shops, then back past the beach and on toward the castle, stopping to inquire about a room at a bed & breakfast.

They stroll the castle grounds hand in hand. He steals many a glance at her, noting that she looks even more brown for their time in the sun than she did lying amongst the white sheets this morning. Her smile is unhesitating, even now that she knows.

She feels, among many things, an aching in her heart for the love he lost and especially for the child he never knew. But she also feels a deeper connection to him somehow.

Above all else she is aware of how fortunate she is to be here, alive and in good health in this world on this day, and sharing this life with a man she loves so completely that it's no longer discernible where he ends and she begins.

 **oOo**

They walk until MacTavish puts his brakes on, and then they find a bench on the cliffside looking out to sea. Isobel sits facing Richard with her knees drawn up to her chest.

"Will you tell me about her?" she asks gently, tracing the tip of her index finger along the cuff of his shirt, the blue veins on the underside of his wrist. "What was her name?"

"Her name was Jessica," he says. "Wee little thing she was, very petite. All dark hair and green eyes and a wicked laugh. She'd a wonderfully dry sense of humour and I think that's what I was drawn to, initially anyhow. Her flatmate's brother was a cricketer, a mate of mine, and she came to all the matches in support of him. That's how we met. I was most impressed that there was a girl who knew all the rules." He grins, jostling her arm.

"Yeah, sorry about that one … Rugby I know backwards and forwards but cricket … I think I'm catching on now though, aren't I?"

"You've come a long way, beauty." He winks at her before continuing. "I don't really know how we ever progressed … it certainly wasn't by any grand plan of mine to woo her. She'd tag along when we'd go for drinks after the matches and she was easy to talk to. She did most of the talking at first, and it's a good job she did or I'd never have said so much as 'hello' to her. After one particular match most everybody went straight home - big exam the next morning. So there we found ourselves, she and I, with nothing to do, and I asked would she like to have dinner together. Six weeks later we were engaged."

"And you loved her. I can see it in your eyes." She smiles as she says this, all traces of the earlier covetousness gone.

"Yeah, I did, very much. In fact at the time I thought I would never love anyone again the way I loved her. And for years I didn't care to try. Even when I did give it a go, when Mam was still alive and I'd got right fed up with her pestering me, there didn't seem much point."

She nods her understanding. "I get that. Except I never _did_ try. There was Reg, and he was everything, and then there was nothing." She touches his cheek and their eyes meet. "And then there was you."

"Darling," he says softly, raptly, pulling her into his embrace. A moment later, "I did love Jessie, as much as I knew how to love at the time. And for the longest time I thought that was the pinnacle, that I'd had it and lost it and would never have it again. But it's like I've heard you say … as powerful as that first love was, it wasn't until I knew you that I had any inkling that there was _more._ I feel a right fool saying that—"

"No," she cuts in. "No, not at all! When you and I fell in love, I think it actually propelled me backwards for a time in the process of grieving for Reg for that very reason: I had thought that there was no greater entity than my love for him, and suddenly I discovered otherwise. For me personally there was guilt there. Was I betraying him? If indeed it were possible to love more deeply than I had done, had I failed him in some way?" He nods his agreement as she pauses. Linking her arm through his, she continues. "You were so patient with me then, so understanding. Now I know why. Can I ask you something else?"

He grins, ruffling her hair. "You're not going to offend me, Bel. Only the sun's gone quite low and I know you wanted to go back on the beach before dark."

MacTavish, who has been fast asleep in the grass, perks his ears up at the word 'go.' Isobel scratches his head. "Doesn't miss a trick, that one," she remarks to Richard. Then, to the dog, "Are you ready to play then, lad?" They laugh when he jumps up, looking as if he's stood at attention. He doesn't so much walk as trot on their way down to the beach.

It strikes Isobel as funny that she derives so much pleasure from this little creature who was only meant to be Richard's birthday present the summer before last. How quickly and entirely he stole her heart! It isn't that he's like having a child all over again, only in some ways it's _exactly_ like that. Thoughts of that nature would have ushered in a wave of guilt until recently _._ Now she welcomes them for the gift they are.

"So … I believe you had something to ask me," he reminds her, breaking through her musings.

"You don't have to answer, but … The baby. Did you …?" She can't bring herself to say it, is sorry for even thinking the thought.

He knows precisely what she's alluding to and nods solemnly. "Ever curse the privilege of your profession? Of course it wasn't anything that was ever told to me, but I had access to the autopsy report. To this day I couldn't tell you why I read it. Never should have done; I had nightmares for years afterward. At the time I thought it would make me feel … I don't know … closer to her or some such rubbish. Anyway, there was a notation at the very end - gestational age: 9 weeks 3 days plus or minus three days, gender: female."

She hears the gravel crunch beneath their feet, feels her pulse pounding in her temples. _His daughter was a footnote._

Suddenly she can't trust her knees, and she reaches a hand out, touching his wrist, halting them wordlessly.

"Oh, my darling, I'm so sorry," she whispers. He moves into her embrace and he's fine, he's _fine,_ but for the stinging at the corners of his eyes. For just a moment he has the sensation of living it all again.

It goes as quickly as it came, and he clears his throat. "Anyhow, there it is. All such a long time ago, but now you know."

Recognising his dismissal of the subject, she moves them along. "Thank you for telling me," she whispers. "Let's go enjoy our evening, hmm?" She reaches up to kiss him lightly, just a press of lips.

 **oOo**

It's cooler on the beach with the sun going down, so they keep warm by running with MacTavish and tossing his ball. On the wind they hear snatches of conversation from along the esplanade above them.

"... Not unlike the way it all began, hmm?" says a man in a deep baritone.

"Will ye be needing me to hold your hand this time?" Richard grins at this, instantly recognising the speaker as a Scotswoman.

"Only if you promise to make it sound risqué."

The voices grow louder as the speakers approach. "We may have it in mind to live a little, but if we go in that water this early on we might just freeze solid."

The man's reply must be whispered because the next thing they hear is wicked laughter from the pair.

Richard throws the ball down the beach but before MacTavish can retrieve it, a tiny black blur leaps down onto the sand from above, racing alongside the beagle and overtaking him.

They hear the Scotswoman shriek. "Angus! You do _not_ run away from Mam and Da! Come back here _now!_ "

MacTavish takes stock of the new arrival and, recognising with delight someone his own size, bounds after the black streak. Suddenly the ball is abandoned and the two dogs are chasing one another along the surfline. Richard and Isobel step back to watch the show.

Two figures crest the rise above them: a tall man and a diminutive woman, she appearing breathless. _"Angus!"_ she bellows, looking in the direction of the dogs. "There you are! Come, lad!"

The tall man whistles sharply. Both dogs stop running and look up. Spotting the ball near Isobel, MacTavish runs toward it. Not to be outdone, his companion rushes to join in, reaching it first.

Isobel glances at Richard and he nods. "Very good," she calls brightly to the little creature, a Scottish terrier. "Bring it here!" The black dog tilts his head at her curiously but complies, dropping the ball at her feet.

"Yes, hello there! Aren't you clever," she croons. Crouching down carefully so as not to startle the visitor, she picks up the lead he's been trailing along behind him. MacTavish sits down beside him, both dogs trained on Isobel.

The man and woman on the rise, clearly the terrier's owners, approach them. "Ah, I see we've made a friend," the woman says to her dog, and then to Isobel and Richard, "I'm so sorry about that. I was chatting to my husband and next thing I know lad's off like a shot! He must have caught sight of your dog." She nibbles her bottom lip, looking sheepish. "We're still working on manners. Clearly got a ways to go."

"Oh, no, don't apologise," Isobel says, passing the terrier's lead to her. "I think it's wonderful! Our lad doesn't get much chance to play with other dogs. Look at them … they're eating it up!"

"If you're sure …" the other woman hedges as her husband comes to her side. They're a handsome couple, Isobel thinks. The man has a distinguished look about him, with wavy salt-and-pepper hair and imposing eyebrows. The woman has expressive blue eyes, copper-coloured hair and an easy smile. They look to be roughly the same ages as she and Richard.

"Absolutely. We're hoping to run out our MacTavish so that he'll sleep through the night," Isobel tells her with a smile. "He's an awful habit of waking us with the sunrise."

The woman glances at her husband and both of them grin. "And here we were thinking it was only us!" She unsnaps the terrier's lead and looks down at him. "Go on, then," she says, indicating with her chin, and he's off down the beach with MacTavish hot on his heels.

"He's adorable, your dog," Isobel says. "What's he called?"

"Angus," replies the other. "He's a character, that's for sure. And you said yours was …?"

"MacTavish," Isobel supplies.

"Oh, I love it!" The woman grins.

"My husband is from Edinburgh," Isobel offers by way of explanation. "I'm Isobel Clarkson." She extends her hand.

"Elsie Hu—" the other woman begins, then glances at her husband, cringing. " _Carson._ Elsie Carson. From Argyll." She shakes Isobel's hand. "God, I must look a right fool. Mad Scot doesn't even know her own name; can't control her dog. We used to work together, you see," she gestures toward the tall man, "For a very long time, actually, and it's only relatively recently that we were married. I always used my maiden name at work. It cut down on the ... confusion."

 _Oh, how very interesting!_ Isobel thinks. She smiles in understanding. "It's odd for me as well. I was _Dr. Crawley_ for so much of my life that when I hear _Mrs. Clarkson_ I turn around and look for someone else. This is my husband, by the way." She touches Richard's elbow and he steps forward.

"Richard," he offers, shaking the couple's hands.

"Oh, sorry," the woman - _Elsie_ \- says, "My husband, Charles."

Isobel nods to the man, shaking his hand. "Charles, Elsie, lovely to meet you both. Do you live locally?"

"No, no, we live in Thirsk. We're just here for a couple of days, celebrating our anniversary," Elsie explains.

"Oh, happy anniversary! Is it today?"

"Tomorrow," the husband, Charles, says, his eyes going soft when he looks at his wife. "It'll be our first."

Isobel smiles brightly. "How wonderful for you both! Scarborough must be special to you then."

Elsie nods, the blush rising in her cheeks. "We came here on honeymoon. We've said we plan to come back each year." She reaches for her husband's hand and he enfolds her tiny one in his. The four of them watch the dogs frolicking in the water and laugh at their antics.

"So, I'm sorry, I was all in a lather over Angus going AWOL and I realise I've not asked about the two of you," Elsie says. "Where do you live?"

Isobel and Richard share a look. "Well, we've only _just_ retired three weeks since," she begins.

"We were working in London. Isobel's got this lovely house in the country … bit of a bolt-hole, at least for us …" Richard chimes in, and Isobel is astounded. Socialising is something he does sparingly, and only when he feels a connection to another.

 _So it's not just me,_ she muses. There's something about this couple, a comfortable sort of familiarity beyond the fact that they're also older and recently married and have a wonderful little dog.

She picks up the story. "It isn't that I _have_ a house … it's been in the family for ages. It was always where I'd go when I needed to regroup and my aunt who held the deed left it to me, or I'd never be able to afford it."

"Where's the house?" asks Charles.

"It's in Newton-on-Ouse."

"Oh, splendid! Lovely up there," Elsie enthuses.

"Yeah, _posh_ up there," Isobel says. "It's alright to say it! As I said, we'd never be able to live there if it hadn't been given to me. Even without a mortgage we had to sell up in London to shore things up for the future."

"What did you do in London? You said you were a doctor?" Elsie asks.

Isobel nods. "I'm an obstetrician. Richard is a neonatologist." She can't yet bring herself to speak of their professions in past tense, but she leaves off the business about them being department heads - to her ears the mention of it seems ostentatious. "We were with St. Mary's Hospital. It's how we met. We've had an …" She pauses to search for the right word, wanting to be genuine without revealing too much to people they don't know, "... an _intense_ couple of years, and we were spending so much time up at Newton that Richard said to me last fall, 'Why don't we retire up there?' All this to say that we live in Newton-on-Ouse, but as it's so new it still feels funny saying so."

"How close are you to Beningbrough Hall?" Charles asks, his interest apparently piqued.

"In winter we can see the gates," Isobel tells him. "You both seem as though you know the area."

Elsie smiles in a self-deprecating manner. "We've retired since the wedding, but before that we were with the National Trust. Charles is an historian …"

"Due in large part to the woman who raised me," Charles interjects and it makes Isobel smile. Straightaway she identifies similarities between herself and Elsie (the gift of gab, for starters) and also between Richard and Charles, both quietly thoughtful and deliberate.

He goes on. "You see I was orphaned in my youth, but before their deaths, my parents were the last butler and housekeeper employed by the Earl and Countess of Grantham. The Earl passed away, leaving the Dowager quite lonely. We needed looking after, both she and I, and that's what we did."

"Hold on a moment … you said the Dowager Countess of Grantham looked after you?" Isobel asks. That title could only belong to one individual.

"Yes," Charles replies.

"You're speaking of Violet Crawley?" She presses for clarification. If he is who she thinks he is …

"Yes, the very same." He looks more than a bit perplexed.

"She said her name was Crawley. Her professional name," Elsie says to her husband, her eyes wide.

" _You're_ Charles! Violet's Charles!" Isobel practically squeals. Richard gives her a sidelong look and she covers her mouth. "I'm sorry." She backpedals, thinking she must look a right loon. "Violet is my cousin. My husband's cousin - my … my late husband. By marriage. I didn't have occasion to meet her until my son took an interest in her granddaughter but she's become a very dear friend."

Elsie puts a hand on Charles' arm. "This is _Matthew's mother!"_

Isobel's heart lurches at the words. Richard senses it without looking at her and takes her hand, smoothing it between both of his own.

"Dr. Crawley," Charles addresses Isobel with eyes full of sincerity, "may I offer my condolences on the loss of your son? I had the privilege of getting to know him quite well, and I must say that his influence did a world of good for Mary."

She blinks back the tears that sting her eyes and swallows around the lump in her throat. "I— … It's been a while since I've been called 'Matthew's mother,'" she manages with a watery smile. "Thank you for your kind words about my son." She feels Richard's arm go around her waist and is soothed by the way he draws her to his side.

The four continue their chat until the sun sinks below the horizon and the surfline is nearly indistinguishable from the sand.

"So you're stopping for the night, then?" Richard asks the other couple.

Charles nods. "We've got a room in the Castle By The Sea where we stayed last year."

"So have we! You haven't had dinner by any chance, have you?"

"No," Elsie says. "We were on our way into town to sort out some supper when Angus took his little detour." She looks pointedly at the pup, who cocks his head when he hears his name. "But I'm ever so glad he did. There's a place we like down at the end of the cliffs. Very cosy, full service and they welcome dogs. We'd love it if you'd join us."

"Are you sure?" Isobel asks. "We'd hate to crash your party."

"Don't be silly. It's been a lovely surprise meeting you both and besides, just look at those two." They laugh at Angus and MacTavish rolling round in the sand together. "I should hate to break them up."

"They pour a lovely pint," Charles adds convincingly.

Richard and Isobel converse wordlessly, a series of meaningful glances that lead Elsie to suspect they must do this often.

"Lead the way," Richard says with a nod.

They leave the dogs off lead to race and chase one another until they reach the centre of town. Once the leads are on, the two dogs walk shoulder-to-shoulder in front of Elsie and Isobel.

"Makes one wonder what they're talking about," Isobel says to Elsie, and they share a laugh.

"I've never seen anything like it," Elsie replies. "Two peas in a pod, they are. Absolutely priceless."

"It's silly, but it does my heart good to see MacTavish meet a friend. I feel a bit like a proud mum all over again." Isobel doesn't know why she says it. Friendships have not featured prominently in her life for a very long time. Vulnerability isn't a thing she does easily, particularly since having lost Matthew. But this is different. Elsie and Charles are different. _She_ is different now, softened a little by time and a great deal by Richard's steadfast, unflinching love.

Isobel needn't worry; if ever there was a _right_ person with whom to have divulged such a confidence, Elsie is it. "If it is silly, then we're cut from the same cloth, you and I," she tells Isobel. "I never did have children, and I swore I wouldn't project maternally onto that wee ball of fluff, but he charmed his way into my heart and that was that. Not unlike his father." She casts a mischievous eye over her shoulder at Charles.

 _My, but they're in love,_ Isobel thinks, _and isn't it grand? I wonder … do Richard and I look at one another like that?_

"So I think you had started back there to explain how it was that you and Charles met," she says.

"Ah, right! Just before it turned into Old Home Week. Incidentally, isn't that something? In the whole of England, to find that the strangers you meet beside the seaside …"

"... Aren't strangers at all," Isobel finishes. "You could have knocked me down with a feather! But it's wonderful, and rather … serendipitous, our having met. The timing of it all and the similarities. It shouldn't surprise me, is what I'm saying. I'm finding there's all manner of joyous discoveries to be made later in life."

"Any fool could see that your husband is chief among them," Elsie observes with a knowing smile.

Isobel returns it, nodding. "I was alone for twenty years. Not _alone,_ alone … I took the job in London and that's when I met Richard, five years after my Reginald died. We were friends from the outset, the very best kind of friends, but I suppose I'd just resigned myself to widowhood. And then one day everything changed, and suddenly I couldn't imagine my life without Richard. And he and I still talk often about how _sweet_ it is … As deeply in love as I was early on in my life, there's no comparison between my first marriage and what I have with him now. And I never talk about these things, but something tells me if anyone will understand, it's you. I suppose our shared connection to Violet is likely loosening my tongue as well."

"I'm glad you're giving voice to it! All this time I've been thinking it's only Charles and I who feel this way," Elsie tells her. "Our story is much the same. I knew of him through work. I was a journalist with the Trust, mostly media relations and that bit. History is very dear to me, but for Charles it's his lifeblood, so he'd a bit of a … reputation," she glances lovingly over her shoulder, "as a stickler. Meticulous. Some were rather harsh about it, as I'm sure you can imagine. But I found him very kind, once I got past the gruff exterior, and we became friends. Then we ended up collaborating on a series of articles about the estates of Yorkshire. If ever there was anyone passionate about preserving their legacy, it's that man. We did quite a lot of traipsing about the countryside together, and roundabout then I realised that I saw him as more than just a friend." Elsie pauses in her story, a faraway look passing across her eyes as she reminisces.

"I've come to find out since that he'd been feeling that way for quite some time," she goes on. "I think he had his suspicions confirmed after he took me to meet Violet - for the series, of course."

"A lot of people don't know how to take her," Isobel chimes in.

"Precisely," Elsie agrees, "but we connected, she and I. I can't put my finger on it, but …"

"There's a soft heart underneath all her masquerading, but one has to have a strong constitution to discover it."

"I think you've said it all right there. It was a slow progression with Charles. He'd been … badly hurt in the past. But once he began to look at retirement - and likely got an earful from Violet - he asked me would I ever consider joining him, and at that point he had to come forward with his feelings and spell it all out. Which he did and … long story short, here we are." She smiles. "And you're right: it's breath-stealing, love at this stage. Like everything is … _punctuated._ "

"Oh," Isobel sighs, "have you any idea what a relief it is knowing Richard and I aren't the only ones who feel this way? We can't talk about it with anyone!"

 **oOo**

The group of them arrive at the Old Scalby Mills and are seated at a table in the bar area. Thoroughly exhausted from their romp in the surf, MacTavish and Angus soon curl up under the table, sharing the teddy bear that MacTavish drags along everywhere he goes.

The Carsons were spot on with their recommendation of the restaurant, and soon both drink and conversation are flowing freely. Richard and Charles have discovered a shared passion for cricket, and Charles takes a keen interest in Richard's account of his unit's involvement in the Siege of Beirut in 1982. Once again Isobel is taken by surprise - his military service is another of the subjects Richard rarely speaks of.

Talk inevitably turns to Violet and the Crawley family. Charles regales the lot of them with stories of his adolescence under the watchful eye (and sharp tongue) of the elder stateswoman. And if Elsie had felt a kinship with Isobel up to this point, it is solidified when Isobel intimates that her relationship with Mary is "... Quite honestly, hard." She blinks thoughtfully, searching for the proper words. "I'm conflicted where Mary is concerned. Part of me feels very maternally toward her. I love her because my son loved her, and because she gave me my grandson …"

"Oh," Elsie interposes, "George is a beautiful boy. Do you see much of him?"

Isobel looks to Richard, who nods as if to tell her, 'Just say it.'

"It's been since before the move that we've seen him," she admits, and sadness flickers across her eyes. "I understand that Mary enjoys her work, that she's successful and keen to move up the ladder. I don't begrudge her any of that. But I wonder at times whether she hasn't got a bit more of a taste for attractive businessmen than is … prudent. It's a bit difficult to watch that happen from my particular vantage point." She pauses, adding, "And I do believe she tries to be a mother to George, but she doesn't come by it naturally."

"And it isn't as if _her_ mother was much of an example in that regard," Charles adds.

Elsie has the good graces to look shocked. "Your lips to God's ears, love." She nudges him with her elbow, winking at him.

"I'm willing to risk it," he replies. And then, to Isobel, "You're not saying anything we haven't already heard from Violet, though it has to be said that you've softened it up considerably."

Elsie chuckles. "One never need wonder where they stand with Violet."

"Truth," Isobel declares, clinking glasses with Elsie.

"We're optimistic that our presence in Yorkshire means we'll see more of George," says Richard, ever the diplomat.

"Yes," Isobel picks up, "we're trying not to rush headlong into commitments of any sort just now, but we've talked about offering to keep George when Mary works out of the York offices. It's not that I object to his attending nursery - he needs the opportunity to play with other children - but we would jump at the chance to ... assert a positive influence over his life, shall we say?"

They talk until the kitchen closes down, until they are the establishment's remaining patrons. It's approaching midnight when Isobel glances at her watch. "Goodness, these people have families to get home to!"

Richard and Charles reach for the check at the same time. "Our treat," Richard insists.

"No, we couldn't accept," Charles replies.

"Please. Tomorrow's your anniversary; I'm sure you weren't planning for strangers to tag along tonight. Let us buy you dinner."

Charles concedes, shaking Richard's hand. "Very kind of you. We're so pleased to have met you both, truly."

The walk back to the bed and breakfast is more than the two exhausted pups can manage, and the pathway gets steeper as they near the castle. Isobel and Elsie end up carrying MacTavish and Angus the remainder of the way while their husbands teasingly prod them for being soft.

"If this comes off as overly forward, do say so," Isobel tells Elsie, "but Angus is welcome to stay in our room. MacTavish would only be too glad of the company, and I was thinking that as tomorrow is your anniversary, it might be nice to lie in and not have to get up in the night with him."

Now it's her turn to watch as Elsie and Charles hold an entire conversation without words. She marvels at how flawlessly they communicate.

"You're sure it isn't an imposition?" Charles asks.

"Not at all. It'll be fun!"

"He's got into the habit of needing let out somewhere in the vicinity of 1:30 in the morning," Elsie tells her, "and the notion of not having that to sort does sound appealing."

While Charles goes to their room to fetch Angus' food, Richard and Isobel linger with Elsie and the dogs. "You and Charles ought to come out to ours sometime," Richard says. "We're on three acres, so the lads would have plenty of room to run."

"Yes, and you could call in at Beningbrough," Isobel adds. "And it would give me the push I need to hurry along with the redecorating."

"We'd love that," Elsie agrees. As Charles returns with Angus' things she drops a kiss on the pup's head. "You mind your manners, eh, lad?" Isobel and Elsie exchange telephone numbers and agree to talk in the morning about meeting up for breakfast.

The exhausted pups find the couch straightaway, curling up together, and they make such an adorable picture that Isobel can't bring herself to make them move. Instead she snaps photos and texts them to Elsie. _'The children are nestled all snug in their beds! Have a pleasant night. - I'_

It has been a day that neither Richard nor Isobel will soon forget. A morning that began with long, slow, luxuriant lovemaking, followed by an impromptu journey of the kind they've been longing to take for a long while which led to conversations they might never have had otherwise. A chance meeting beside the seaside that, to all appearances, has the potential to grow into a beautiful friendship.

Isobel is tired, but it's the best kind of fatigue, the kind wrought by salt air and golden sunshine. She stretches long against the mattress as Richard lies beside her, his hands drifting beneath the hem of the camisole she wears, fingers splaying against her abdomen and hips.

"I wanted to thank you again," she whispers, "for sharing with me about Jessica, about your daughter. My heart is torn, Richard; I'm happy that you were loved and that you knew love, because it's made you the wonderful man that you are. But I'm sorry that you know that depth of loss."

Catching her hand in his, he brings it to his lips, kissing her fingertips. "I'm not," he says. "I would never have chosen to lose them, but I love you all the more for having done."

She takes his lips in a kiss. "I know what that's like," she says, tracing the shape of his lips with her index finger. "Seeing as we're in a revelatory mood today, may I tell you something?"

He traces absent patterns on the skin of her lower back. "'Course you can. Anything, my beauty."

* * *

 ***Proverbs 31:25 ESV. Not the first time I've quoted this verse with regard to Isobel. Not likely to be the last, either.  
**

 ****From _The Passionate Shepherd to His Love_ by Christopher Marlowe. Be still my shippy heart.**

 *****In a 2008 interview by Olga Craig for _The Telegraph,_ Dame Penelope makes her opinion of reality television quite clear. I find this interview particularly delightful.**


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